


Enjoy the Silence

by Deus_Ex



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Author Can't Tag, Do Witchers Feel?, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Monsters and Money, Not Beta Read, Pre-Slash, Sailing This Ship Into the Sunset, Scars, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22019878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: Five times Geralt was asked about his scars and his nonexistent heart, and one time he answered.Minor spoilers for Season One of the show.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 36
Kudos: 678





	Enjoy the Silence

"Go ahead, ask about them. People always do."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Every time he regained consciousness after being certain he wouldn't, Geralt swore it was the price he paid for surviving: someone always asked him about the scars his body was littered with.

By all means, he should have more. What with how often he threw himself into trouble, and how often it found him, he should be just one giant scar from head to toe. But, as had also been remarked upon previously, he healed well. Too well, sometimes. Geralt sometimes wondered what it would be like to be laid up for a few days. His options were, apparently, limited to two: functional, or unconscious.

In comparison, though, this wasn't the worst wake-up he'd ever had. Next to a beautiful woman he'd never seen before and would never see again, only a few minutes gone by since he dozed off, and a full jug of ale next to him...there were worse places to be, he concluded, shoving a hand through his tousled hair only once before giving it up as a bad job and going for the ale instead. This was hardly his first time.

"My goodness, what is this!"

He'd made the mistake of turning his back to her when he reached for the drink, revealing the long, sunken, pink scar in the center of his back. At first, he froze at the touch of her fingers, still warm against his skin; then, he simply slumped down onto an elbow, head hanging and shoulders slouching. He wasn't in the mood to get into the question-and-answer game tonight, particularly not on such heavy subject matter, but it would seem that he would be left with no other choice.

"A scar," he replied dryly, harshly, and then lifted himself up slightly again to grab the ale by the neck and start looking for the bottom.

"But what made it?" she asked, brunette hair spilling over his shoulders as she slid across the dirtied sheets to wrap her arm across his chest. Previously, the warm press of her flesh against his had felt wonderful, slaking a thirst he so often ignored to the point of forgetting it existed; now, he couldn't wait to be rid of her, and never feel her touch again.

"A particularly nasty Selkiemor," he answered, bitterness not forced or artificial in the least. The best way to kill a Selkiemor was from the inside, and that meant braving its many teeth. One of them had found a home in Geralt's muscle, mercifully missing his spine. The Selkiemor, having by that point determined him too tough to chew, then attempted to spit him out. Geralt refused to be evicted, resulting in more blood and more pain, and finally had succeeded in ripping the beast apart and tearing his way out. No one had been enthused about his reappearance, on account of his appearance itself, but they'd paid him and gently directed him downstream of the nearest river to rinse off.

"What's a Selkiemor?"

He supposed most of her clients preferred this, he reminded himself, before burying himself in ale again. This time, he deigned not to answer, and instead handed her the coin she was due. "Don't worry about it," he stated bluntly, and re-dressed quickly and saw himself out. Anyone who could go their whole life without seeing or hearing of a Selkiemor was a lucky person indeed.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You heal quite nicely."

"So I've been told."

Geralt glowered up at Triss, but he was relieved on some level that she hadn't scolded him for sitting up, nor told him not to move, nor hissed her disapproval and fussed over him until he lay down and accepted his fate to be bedridden for however long she deemed it necessary. It was refreshing not to have to fight people so soon after getting injured from fighting people. And mages were a tricky lot to go up against...

"But...not perfectly, I see."

Geralt followed her gaze, and it landed on his shoulder, where a sizeable bite imprint encircled the large sphere of muscle that sat over the joint. It was about the only part of his torso not covered in bandages, Geralt noted sourly; and also about the only part that wasn't shrieking in agony, or slicked with blood.

"Nothing is perfect," Geralt grunted by means of response. Triss's smile was not unkind, but it implied that she would have more questions for him. She delivered on this almost immediately.

"What caused that?" Geralt raised his eyes to her, and found her looking only mildly curious, and mostly concerned. It rankled him, but only because it was so welcome to see. "I can't imagine what would scar a Witcher."

"A Striga," Geralt suggested sharply, and watched her recoil a bit as she cycled through an odd mixture of humor, worry, and offense. Shifting to sit up a bit straighter, fighting the reflex to flinch away from the pain with everything he had, Geralt defiantly met Triss's gaze again and demanded, before she could ask him anything else, "My coin."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

This one he didn't remember. The farmer, bless him, had told him what had happened later. Delirious, not sure if he was dead or alive or which way was up or who he was, he'd constantly threatened to slide into unconsciousness for long enough that the farmer resorted to badgering him with any question he could think of to try to keep him awake. Just one got a response: "Do you have any scars?" Apparently, Geralt's response had been, "Do I look like a fucking milk maid? Have you ever met a Witcher without any fucking scars?" The farmer had chuckled and pointed out that he'd never met any Witchers, so really, he couldn't say one way or the other. Upon hearing the story recounted, Geralt could only reveal a pleased, toothy grin. It sounded like something he would say.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After hearing that story, Ciri found him later, outside, chopping logs into firewood for the farmer's wife. Sleeves rolled up, bite wound bound tightly with bloody cloth, hair and skin alike drenched in sweat, eyes still a bit wild from his brush with death, Geralt had heaved the farmer's axe again when he saw the blonde girl out of the corner of his eye. Slowly lowering the blade, not inclined to strike again while Ciri was close enough to be hit by any pieces that came off the wrong way, Geralt greeted her with the rare privilege of speaking first: "Something I can do for you, Princess?"

"Your leg," she answered immediately, cutting right to the chase, "will it scar?"

Brows rising and falling again in quick succession, Geralt glanced down at the offending wound, which he'd been favoring without realizing it. _Yee, gods, that looks awful,_ the farmer had remarked, before Geralt shoved him off and demanded he be useful. "Likely," he admitted. "But I doubt that's why you came out."

"No." Ciri seated herself on a nearby stump, prompting Geralt to do the same. The axe he set aside; he doubted he would get very much else accomplished until her curiosities had been satisfied. "I wanted to know what made that wound."

With the ghost of a smile on his lips, Geralt laced his fingers together between his knees and turned his head, the better to let his amber eyes wander over the nearest trees. They were black and desolate-looking, interspersed with fog leftover from the rain that had only just stopped. Both of them were muddy from it, their boots splattered and their pants dirtied. No matter how drab her clothing became, though, it was still obvious in her posture and bearing and demeanor that she was royalty.

"They are called Necrophages. And one bite will kill you."

"It didn't kill you."

"My pulse is roughly fifteen beats a minute. And I'm not human."

"Can you teach me to be like you?"

Even with decades of training and experience behind him, it was a struggle to keep his expression blank...for the most part. Something of his rueful intent to decline must have shown on his face, even as he shifted his feet and tightened his hands together, because when he could muster the courage to look back at her, she, too, looked like she was steeling herself. "No, Princess," he murmured, softer than he ever would for anyone else. "It is no longer possible to create more like me..."

"It's because I'm a girl."

She didn't sound dejected. She didn't sound resigned. She sounded twice as determined, and Geralt found his heart going out to her. If twice the people on earth were half as brave as her, no one would ever have to feel helpless or alone.

"My order did not accept girls. No."

She sat up straighter, then stood up, though it didn't make much difference with how petite she was. But it made her feel emboldened and strengthened, and he would allow anything to know that she felt safe and strong. "I'm going to make a new order, then," she declared, as imperiously as her mother before her, and her grandmother before her. "And I will be a powerful sorceress, too!"

Ah, so Calanthe had not told her of the Witchers. She likely had no idea, then, of the circumstances of their meeting, or of what had transpired to bring her here today, or the reasons behind any of it. That conversation could be for later, though: Geralt could not bring himself to dash her hopes again so soon after she got them up. "I look forward to that day, Princess."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

There were times Geralt regretted using his final wish from the djinn to bind his fate to Yennefer's. Now was not one of those times.

They lay together in the half-light, hastily covered with blankets, her head pillowed on his chest in the divot between the muscles. She fit perfectly there: lying along his left side, one arm slung across his waist, the other tucked under his shoulder, bottom leg pressed inch-for-inch against his and top leg between his knees. Theirs was a unique and blissful night: Geralt never had to worry about small talk with her, or sometimes even talking at all. Neither of them wanted to address or closely examine what kept them coming back time after time.

When he woke up in the morning, she was sitting in front of the dirty, rusted, stained mirror, brushing out her hair, clothed in only a thick cloak pulled quickly about her figure. Feeling an inexplicable pull, chest knotting when he realized the bed was already cold, Geralt rose, dragging one of the blankets off the bed with him, and came to stand behind her, dropping one hand to her shoulder. To his immense relief, she not only accepted the contact, but leaned into it as well.

"That scar on your thigh wasn't there the last time we were intimate."

Geralt snorted once, lightly, in response. She'd taken quite an interest in it, much to his pleasure. Scar tissue was odd. "Necrophage," he offered bluntly. When her gaze snapped to his, even turning to face him, he gave her a wry half-smirk and elaborated, "I"m just glad I'm not dead."

"By all means, you should be," she sniffed, and returned to brushing her hair, if not somewhat subdued in her efforts. "How are you not dead, anyway?"

"My pulse is fifteen beats a minute."

Yennefer swore slightly under her breath, finished her hair, and rose to meet him face-to-face again. She was several inches shorter than him, but she was hardly letting it stop her from glaring right into his amber eyes. "You flirt with death better than you flirt with me," she boldly proclaimed, eyes moving over his face as he cracked a smile and even dared to chuckle. Looping an arm around her waist, Geralt admitted,

"It was painful...and concerning. But scars won't kill me."

Now, she only looked twice as defiant. Her fingers were frigid as they came to rest on his chest, her palm only slightly less so. Right over the point where his sluggish heart lay barely beating she rested her hand, and Geralt felt oddly threatened and exposed by the gesture. How strange that he did not even feel fear when a Striga pinned him down to the floor and leaned over him, shrieking, gaping maw poised over his throat, but now...

"These might."

It took him a moment to gather her meaning, but when he did, he felt like the Striga had just thrown him down. Breath rushing out of him in a sharp _whoosh,_ Geralt could, for a moment, only stare down at her, still confidently meeting his gaze with a steadfastness that he envied right now. "Can you feel?" she asked him, almost tauntingly, and he found no air in lungs with which to answer. Not with the accusing way she looked at him, lavender eyes firm with resolve but swimming with the depths of emotions she would never admit to. Like she was peeling back his skin, his muscle, his bone, unveiling all of those scars on his heart that no one thought existed-

_"Can you feel?"_

It was the first time he'd ever answered the question. He was honest.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

_"Fuck!!_ Must you?"

"Stop killing them from the inside, then!"

Jaskier, bless him, had just upended a bucket of water over Geralt's head. Another town, another Selkiemor, another tragic affair of blood, guts, stench, and ruined clothing. This time, it was summer, and Jaskier had met him just inside the door to the inn where Geralt had met the townsfolk who had commissioned him, ushered him back outside, and thrown a bucket of water over him. Shaking and growling like an offended canine, Geralt flung the worst of the water from his hair and stomped back inside, demanding, "My coin, an ale, and a room for the night." Eyes wide with terror and respect, the innkeeper had shown him upstairs immediately, deposited an entire pitcher of ale inside, and waved off Geralt's proffered coin, telling him it was his pleasure and not to worry about it before making a hasty retreat. If he had anything to say about Jaskier sliding into the room behind him, he was smart enough not to say it in front of Geralt.

The Witcher shamelessly disrobed and sank into the bath waiting at the other end of the room, groaning as the filth immediately began to slough off. He was lucky: he'd managed to get into the water before the guts began to dry, at which point they would want to be scrubbed off with something abrasive, as opposed to eased off with soap.

"Ridiculous," Jaskier huffed, already flitting about the room chattering away. "You make such a show out of it every time, and now these poor people need to mop the entire inn. There is a trail of rotten guts from the front door to this very room! Why, I wouldn't be surprised if they-"

"There would be far more guts if we left the Selkiemor there to kill anyone who happened upon it."

"Yes, but-"

"Did you get the name Dandelion because you're a weed?"

The jab had the desired affect of stealing Geralt a single moment's peace while Jaskier gawked and gaped and sputtered before recovering himself a moment later. And then he started up again, indignant and fuming and full of self-pity, and Geralt simply sank beneath the water chasing another moment of blessed silence. Under here, it wasn't quite silence, but Jaskier sounded far away and beautifully muffled, and Geralt could hold his breath for minutes.

He deigned to surface again when he saw shadows frantically zipping around the outside of the tub and Jaskier started to sound a bit more shrill. Glowering, rising like a crocodile with his amber eyes sharp and not all of the gore fully rinsed away, Geralt fixed Jaskier in a terrifying predatory stare that, unfortunately, Jaskier knew to be an empty threat. Whatever thread he'd been on when Geralt went under the water and came back up again, he'd picked up a different one now, and was apparently off to the races once more.

"Only you could get yourself so filthy that just bathing isn't going to be enough. Where do you find these creatures, I wonder? And what sadist is instructing you to kill them in such a fashion? I can't think of a worse way to do it, actually, and that's saying something, because I've been telling your stories for years now! The truth really is stranger than fiction, because I couldn't imagine half of what we've been through on my own. I mean, _really,_ that's a chunk of intestines _in your hair!"_

"If it offends you so much, Jaskier, get it out yourself. For the moment, I am going to enjoy sitting still, with nothing trying to kill me, until the water gets cold or I want to drown you. Whichever comes first."

Jaskier resumed sputtering and blustering and squawking like a fish out of water, so Geralt closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and sank lower into the water. Jaskier's voice was nothing more than background noise, and Geralt had become so accustomed to it that it was all the same as silence to him by now, if not slightly more grating. The tub creaked slightly as he slithered down deeper, tucking his chin into the water as well; his hair dripped a steady patter onto the floor behind him, half of it hanging over the edge of the tub; footsteps thudded down the hallway, past their door without slowing, and continued on their way...

Geralt's attention was pricked a minute or two later when he suddenly realized that Jaskier had stopped talking. That was quite an unusual occurrence, especially when Geralt himself was not the direct cause of such a happening. Eyes still shut, the lids tightened momentarily as Geralt's brow furrowed and he focused his hearing, searching for Jaskier through sound first. The bard was more likely to be heard before he was seen.

Geralt was nearly startled out of the tub when he felt the slightest brush of fingers through his hair. Only the knowledge that the door had not opened since they'd been in here, and therefore it could only be one person, kept him from simply reaching up and ripping out the throat of whoever was behind him. Witchers didn't startle easily, but they jumped hard when they did. Forcing himself to relax, Jaskier's scent in his nostrils now, Geralt curled lower into the water, not sure if he wanted to chase the hands in his hair or smack them away.

Indecisive, eyes open now and constantly shifting back and forth as the only expression of nerves he would offer, Geralt realized that he was still sitting there. And Jaskier was still picking through the knots in his hair, gently parting them and easing the blood out of the white locks. Gradually, the tension across his shoulders and back began to ease. Jaskier still wasn't speaking, which kept Geralt on alert, but neither did he seem anxious or uncomfortable. He was simply doing as Geralt had so tauntingly suggested that he do: cleaning up the guts that were apparently so offensive to him.

Eventually, Geralt trusted himself enough to lean back a bit, and was surprised to find that Jaskier had perched on the edge of the tub behind him. Fairly leaping away from the contact, already turning to bat Jaskier away, he was halted by the bard's fingers catching in his hair. Snarling, snapping, decidedly wolf-ish in his mannerisms, Geralt meant to turn the other way only to earn another tug, this one clearly intentional. To his continually-growing surprise, Jaskier simply huffed at him once and slid his fingers back into Geralt's hair, gently but clearly guiding him to sit back again. Unsure if he wanted to growl or just sink down under the surface again, Geralt tentatively allowed it, and found his head resting against Jaskier's thigh.

His body was warm and strong like his own, but with a yielding softness that reminded him of Yennefer. Softness that protected steel, he noted. Bolder now, having gotten away with a fair amount, Jaskier took to running the pads of his fingers across Geralt's scalp, at first easing the blood out and then working soap through and finally rinsing it out. Through it all, Geralt was shocked not only that Jaskier didn't speak, but also at how comfortable and confident he seemed...and at how calm he found himself. Jaskier's hands were not rough and punishing, nor were they quick and business-like and impersonal. Rather, they were attentive and tender, but not in a way that Geralt felt like glass. Jaskier knew exactly how strong he was, but...he wasn't challenging or testing that strength. It was strange...but perhaps not unwelcome.

Geralt allowed Jaskier to finish washing his hair, towel it off, work a bit of oil through the ends, and finally comb it out. When he was finished, Jaskier tied it up in a knot to keep it from dipping back into the water. And then, he let his hands linger on Geralt's shoulders. By now, Geralt had grown too accustomed to Jaskier's touch, and thought nothing of it. Not until Jaskier's thumb brushed over the scar at the nape of his neck, and a shiver went down his spine. Visibly shaking, recoiling from the touch, Jaskier boldly leaned forward with him, even when Geralt turned to glare at him over his shoulder.

"I would tell you to relax and let me get the knot out...but I know it's futile to tell you to do anything."

This, at least, eked a bit of a smile from Geralt, if not a verbal response. He didn't continue to try to duck out from under Jaskier's hand. "What left that?" Jaskier asked, tracing the curving, swirling shape with his thumb. The pattern was so aesthetically pleasing, if he hadn't known better, he would have thought it was intentional.

It was a long time before Geralt answered. Long enough that Jaskier was starting to think he wouldn't. He didn't always respond, and when he did, the answers were rarely detailed and forthcoming. Jaskier was quite used to being left with more questions than answers after he inquired something of the Witcher. Which was why, when Geralt finally did answer, he was downright astonished at the quality of it.

"Years ago, I got myself caught by a sorcerer. I was fighting him off to free a girl he'd captured...he was experimenting on her. Was going to kill her eventually. He was deranged, ranting about the lesser evil...but she was just a girl. I couldn't leave her.

"I fought my way out, but not before he left me with this. A little souvenir, he said, and tried to curse me with it. Luckily, it didn't take...because I'm not human." Geralt paused, and Jaskier didn't press him for more. Instead, he held his breath, because he knew that there was in fact more, but also that no hell or high water could drag it out of Geralt unless he was so inclined to give it.

"He said he was going to cut me open to see if Witchers truly had no hearts, as is the legend. And then, he was going to cut open the girl, to see if she had a spare she could give me. I took the opportunity to show him how to properly curse someone. Shame he only had seconds to learn it before he died. I got us both out. She ran from me screaming and never looked back."

There was something in Geralt's voice...something uncharacteristically dull and forlorn that left Jaskier wanting. Shimmying around the side of the tub, straining to make sure his hands never left Geralt, Jaskier sat down again on the side to be close. This time, he slid his hand up Geralt's shoulder, over the impressive build of muscle, up the tense sinews of his neck and over his strong jaw, until his palm rested against Geralt's cheek. Beneath his white hair, his other hand came to cover the scar. When Geralt's amber eyes met his, both challenge and inquiry in their depths, Jaskier posed that same damn question to him:

"Is it true, then...? Do you...do you have no heart? Can you not feel?"

He answered again. He lied this time. It seemed kinder than the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo, boy, I took a swandive into this fandom. Binged the series in three days, now chewing through the books. Someone buy me a gaming console for Christmas so I can play through those, too.


End file.
